


1953

by hotteas (orphan_account)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-03 08:57:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1738799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/hotteas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is a cannibal, but Louis doesn't need to know that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1953

**Author's Note:**

> cannibal au

**January 5th, 1953**

It had been a chilly day, the sky hung over with clouds, and myself hung over with homesickness. The long journey from northern England to the southern regions was tiring, to say the least. By my twenty third birthday, I had learned to ignore the looks and whispers my appearance received; however, this particular train ride was not easy.

To begin, I was headed to a minuscule town, of which nobody in their correct mental state had heard of, Turner's Bridge, and secondly— I had forgotten my overcoat at my parents' home. Had it been summertime, or at least the slightest bit decent outside, it would have been perfectly fine. But today the gods above decided to cry their eyes out, and leave their gray, dirty tissues in the sky.

Other than circumstances outside of my control (meaning things not concerning my appearance or general aura), I had my tattoos to deal with. They weren't under heard of. Mostly sailors and criminals had tattoos, but later that year the first of the royal family would get one. The prince would ink his shoulder with the royal crest. Then, however, I was one of the few everyday citizen's of Northern England that had tattooed skin.

They weren't even strange tattoos. I had small, simple things littered across my arms, a few making their way onto my chest and back. Little sayings, doodles, images that reminded me of past experiences. The tattoos were a completely ordinary oddity. It wasn't as though my body art depicted death or pin-up girls, like many men of the British Navy have on their legs. They were tokens of life.

A snobby looking woman in a red scarf had looked me up and down with distain as I sat beside her. I kept my mouth shut. There was no reason to cause a scene; I was used to this sort of treatment. An older man had entered the train car next, holding hands with a little boy who looked around six or seven. I caught the eye of the young red head and gave him a small smile. He waved back, and the old man noticed.

Following the little boy's gaze, his jaw locked. "Come on, Will." his tone harsh as he pulled the child along quicker.

I knew it was me.

Judgement is not something children are born with. No child is born with an innate hatred for people of dark skin. No child is born with a sense of superiority over women. No child is born disliking others. Those are all things children are taught. Something was set off inside of me when that old man pulled the boy away.

"Just because I look different, that doesn't mean you have to stay away." I directed my statement toward the kid, but the gray haired man replied.

"Whoever let someone like you on a family train needs to rethink their choices."

I stayed silent, gripping the fabric of my pants. I couldn't get kicked off the train. It was my only ride to my new home. I let the man go without so much as another word, and the little boy never met my gaze again.

—

"And here is where you'll be staying." My hostess, Mrs. Walters, pushes open the bedroom door. I carry my suitcase into the small white room. The bed is made with a yellow quilt spread across it, and there is a small, wooden desk beneath the window on the wall opposite the door. It's homey.

"Again, thank you very much. I don't know how to ever repay you." I turn to look at the short, happy woman who was kind enough to let me live in her house.

"Just make me pretty when I die." She jokes, and I laugh lightly. It's a new feeling, having someone not afraid of my work. As an undertaker, I haven't made friends easily.

"I'll see what I can do."

"Dinner will be ready in a bit. In the mean time, feel free to stay here or go out and explore the town. The funeral home is a half a mile away, but you don't have to go there until tomorrow. That's when you start, right?" Her graying hair bounces atop her head as she speaks.

"Correct. I'll probably go anyway, just to unpack all my things I left there earlier." Mr. Walters had driven me by before bringing me here so I could drop off all my supplies. I barely had time to set down the cases before he was rushing me back out to the car.

"Well, just be safe. It gets dark quickly here in Turner's Bridge, and it's rather chilly. Luckily, I made some hot soup and a good, hearty dinner for you to eat. I always say, a little bit of meatloaf never did any harm, and in your case I think it will do wonders to warm you up, if you happen to go outside." Mrs. Walters rambles on and on. Though I zone out halfway through her speech, I nod and smile when I think I should so that she doesn't feel unwanted. "Well, I'll go down and finish cleaning. When you're ready, I'll make you a plate."

"Thank you again Mrs. Walters."

"Call me Julia, dear boy. It's only fitting. You're going to be like a son to me in no time. What, with you living her and all. My children are all grown up and gone, but I think you-"

"Don't you have to check on the food, Julia?"

She tosses her hands in the air, as if she just remembered her duties. "Yes, of course! Right."

She continues to mumble to herself as she leaves the room, and I just shake my head. She means well, to be sure, although she'll probably get mighty annoying soon enough. I toss my suitcase onto the bed and unzip it. I have minimal clothing, and of the twelve pieces I own, all are black. There's a gray tie thrown in the mix, but I don't wear it save special occasions. Black is just simple. It's easy.

I pull open a drawer to put my clothes into. A small photograph catches my eye, and I pick it up gently, as if it'll dissolve in my fingers. In it, there are two young boys. One looks to be the son of the Walters, with rounded features and a soft smile. The other is a happy looking boy, green eyes and crazy hair. They're wearing matching outfits— black pants and a white button up, little hats atop their heads. It must have been taken at a wedding.

I put the photograph back into the drawer and close it, picking another one to throw my clothing in. Putting my things in the photograph's drawer feels like I'm invading a space not meant for me.

I check the clock on the wall. Back home, it would still be light outside, but with one look out the large window I can see that it's already dark. Mrs. Walters was right. It does it dark quickly here. I decide that now is as good a time as ever to begin making my way to the funeral home.

I pass through the cozy kitchen on my way out, where Mrs. Walters is busy cooking and discussing the town's gossip with her slightly balding husband.

"Hello Louis, dear. Are you going out?"

"Yes. I'm going to go set everything up down at the funeral home, so that I can get straight to work tomorrow." I explain, slipping on my shoes.

"I can drive you down there." Mr. Walters offers, but I shake my head.

"I'm not quite sure how long it will take me, sir. I wouldn't want you sitting there for an hour."

"Fair enough." He smiles and goes back to his wife chirping on about the women in the church's choir.

"But Arthur!" I hear her exclaim as I walk out the front door. "I'm almost certain Miss Cristie is having an affair with Mr. To-"

The door closes before I can hear her finish her sentence. I'll probably know all of the town hearsay by tomorrow night if Julia keeps this gossip up. The Walters' house has neighbors only a mere ten feet away on either side of their property line, so the street is lit up bright by their house lights and the various street lights scattered down the stretch of road. I follow the line of houses, taking in the local air. All of the houses are on the small side, although none of the families seem right for money. The cars appear to be in pristine conditions, and all the families can be seen eating dinner through their kitchen windows.

I look away, face reddening at the feeling of snooping in places I don't belong.

The sky gets increasingly darker as I continue walking. Finally, the funeral home is in view, and I get there faster than I anticipated I would. Almost all the windows are dark, save one. That's odd. I know that I turned off the light before leaving earlier. I quicken my pace, worried about what might be wrong. It's not even my first day— something can't go wrong already.

The door is unlocked, which makes me even more worried. The foyer light is on. I couldn't see it from the street, because there are no windows. "Hello?" I call out. "Is anyone here?"

I look around the plain, neat foyer. The doors to every hall are closed, leaving me to wonder why the lights are on.

"Me!" A deep voice calls out from the back. I walk toward the voice. "Who is it?"

"Uh, Louis. Louis Tomlinson. I work here." I call back, still heading towards the end of the foyer.

A tall man with curly hair steps out from a half-open door, a wide smile on his face. I'm startled by his deep dimples, and am instantly reminded of the photograph I found earlier. This must be the same child, only grown up and more lanky. "It's good to meet you, Louis. I'm Harry. Your new coworker."

Coworker? The letter I received didn't say I had a coworker. I thought I would be alone, like my past job. "Oh, hello."

"Why are you here?" He asks bluntly, his smile disappearing. Wow, not as friendly as I assumed he was.

"I was going to set out all my things before tomorrow, so I could get straight to work." I explain, mussing my hair out of worry.

"No need. You can do that tomorrow. Nobody has died. I've made enough coffins to last the rest of the week, if something drastic happens." Harry crosses his arms over his chest.

"Well..." I shift from foot to foot. "I can still do it now. I'll be out of your way. Don't worry."

"That's quite alright. Go home. You can do it tomorrow." He says again adamantly.

"I'm already here." I scoff.

"Congratulations?"

"Excuse me. I work here too. You aren't my boss— as you previously mentioned you're my coworker. Thank you for the suggestion, but I do believe I already said no. Now, I'm going to unpack my supplies. It was lovely to meet you."

"Fine." Harry's eyes flash with bitterness as he side steps so I can walk through the white door.

Our workplace is a small, wood paneled room. One wall is lined with coffins of various sizes, another with all the burial procedure supplies. In the middle is a fairly decent sized table with a single coffin laid upon it. The design looks intricate, and I can only wonder who ordered such an ornate piece to be made.

My bags have been pushed aside, no doubt by Harry, and I must reach under the table to grab them. It doesn't take long to put everything in order. Harry doesn't come in once, and I'm curious as to where he went. Wherever it is, he left his lunchbox here. I know he did, because the red container wasn't there earlier today when I came by.

I finish putting my things into drawers and on shelves, hoping I haven't stayed too long. I would like Mrs. Walters to get to bed when she usually does. I don't want her staying up later, which she no doubt will due to her shining virtue of hospitality.

Exiting the workroom, I close the door behind me and turn out the lights. Harry is still no place to be seen, so I decide to leave, making sure everything is off and locked.

By the time I get back to the house, which takes a while seeing as I couldn't remember exactly which house it was, Mr. Walters has gone upstairs to bed, and Mrs. Walters— Julia— was keeping herself busy washing dishes.

"Hello dear." She greets me. "There's some leftover food from dinner if you would like to eat."

"Thank you for the offer, Julia. But I'm not hungry."

"That's just as well. I ought to be getting up to bed soon."

"You should go now. Dishes can wait. It's late."

"You're probably right, but I'm going to finish the dishes anyway." She smiles at me, her eyes crinkling and her teeth crooked.

"Goodnight, Julia."

"Goodnight, Louis. Sweet dreams."

I exit the kitchen and heads upstairs, already praying that tomorrow my coworker will be a little more jubilant, or at least a little less rude. Most likely not, but I can only hope. My curiosity is raging within me as to why he's no longer the happy child in the photograph, and instead a brooding man. Something must have happened. It's not even been five hours, and I'm already intrigued as to what.


End file.
